Stayin' Out in the Rain
by DamnI'mRandom
Summary: There's a violent storm brewing outside, and Sherlock isn't at home. And (surprise, surprise) John is worried sick. Well, it's Sherlock who's sick, and that's the whole point. A walk in the rain works wonders, it would seem. Johnlock!


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, as usual. All rights belong to the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC, as usual. The lovely poem in the middle is 'Laughing Down Lonely Canyons' by James Kavanaugh.

...

_Give me time and give me space,_

_Give me real, don't give me fake._

- Politik, by Coldplay

...

The truth, in John Watson's opinion (and his judgement is usually very reliable), is ever a twisted, poisonous snake. It makes him sigh heavily in resignation, knowing he can never have the one thing he desperately wants over anything else - and he's a man of not many demands. A precarious position is what he's found himself in - either admit to the truth and get squeezed to death by the aforementioned snake, or conceal the truth and pine and get squeezed to death even so. It's agony either way.

He'd admitted it to himself long ago that there is something that attracts him irrevocably to Sherlock Holmes. And while that 'something' is not love, not yet, it is as close to love as is possible for John. He had no choice in that. The heart wants what the heart wants. But choosing to do nothing about this particular fact _was_ the road he chose to take, and you can't deviate from a straight highway onto a side road, because you're going at a constant speed, and changing it abruptly is just bound to have not-so-good repercussions.

So when Sherlock asks him to do whatever absurd task he has in mind, John Watson does it, without complaint more often than not, because he knows that his refusal to co-operate would likely end in unmitigated disaster. And that would be terrible for them both.

...

It's yet another rainy day in London (no surprises there), and John's sitting in his armchair, sipping a mug of steaming tea, wrapped up in a blanket, staring listlessly into the fireplace. Sherlock's out somewhere, as usual. Leaving him behind – as usual.

A violent storm's brewing, and he has no clue where his friend is – most likely at Bart's. He's not too worried. But when the rain comes pelting down in straight, unyielding sheets, a needle of concern pricks him, and this drives him to call Sherlock.

No answer. The phone just keeps ringing.

Alright, so he's slightly more worried now than he'd like to let out. He calls again, this time leaving a message. And again, and again, and again, all with the same result – 'I can't talk to you at the moment because I'm busy with The Work, as you must've gathered by now. If it's trivial and dull, hang up this instant. If not, leave a message if you must.' Never had there been a more authoritative and domineering voice.

He's bordering on hysterical now. And he texts Sherlock. But the instantaneous reply he's come to expect doesn't come.

And just when he's about to call Lestrade to tell him to send out a search party for the consulting detective, he hears footsteps pounding up the stairs – and there he is.

Sopping wet from head to toe, shivering violently, Sherlock Holmes is an absolute mess. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his clothes to his body, and his coat is dripping dark, muddy water steadily to the carpeted wooden floor.

'Where the hell _were _you?' John demands, moving towards Sherlock. 'How long have you been out in that storm? What were you _thinking?!'_

He waxes eloquent about how Sherlock's a complete idiot for a while longer.

Sherlock just stands there, unable to answer, teeth chattering. John grabs his blanket from the armchair and wraps it around his shivering flatmate, to hell with the fact that it'll get wet.

'You need to get out of those clothes right now,' he says, steering Sherlock towards his bedroom, ignoring the noises of protest that the detective is making and helping him peel off his filthy clothing, his manner decidedly (for Sherlock's sake as well his own) professional. He pointedly avoids looking at Sherlock's (_ahem_) body parts, doing his job as Sherlock's doctor as best as he can without embarrassing himself.

After pushing Sherlock into a hot shower, he goes to the kitchen and leans his head against the wall, sighing deeply. Looking after a hypothermic Sherlock is going to be hard work, he decides, like everything else with Sherlock is.

When he hears Sherlock step out of the shower, he pushes himself off the wall reluctantly and pours the remainder of the tea into a mug.

When he turns back around, Sherlock's sitting by the fire on the floor, fully attired his pyjama bottoms and grey t-shirt, gazing into its depths, still shivering, but not as violently as before. John looks at him from the door of the kitchen affectionately and smiles, before he gets a grip on himself and hands Sherlock the piping hot mug of tea and wraps another blanket around the man's skinny, hunched shoulders.

'Drink up,' he orders, half-serious, and is surprised when he sees Sherlock obey.

The warmth seeps into Sherlock's stone cold hands, spreading from his fingertips to the rest of his body. The sensation is shocking at first, too hot, then, as he gets used to it, becomes pleasant.

'You have very mild hypothermia, Sherlock. Now, I don't know what you were thinking, staying out in the storm like that,' John begins in a low, furious voice before Sherlock holds up a tired, pale hand. _Not now_. John keeps mum, but fixes Sherlock with a steely glance, clearly stating that they aren't done talking about this.

Sherlock carefully sips the tea and is mildly surprised - it is chamomile-flavoured with a little dash of lemon (John is slowly learning. It's just the way he likes it). He keeps his eyes on the dancing flames of the fire, receding deep within himself, cordoning off all contact from the world and allowing himself to unfocus for once. He barely registers John's sigh of discontent.

'Sherlock,' John tries again, after sitting patiently beside the silent Sherlock for the better part of two hours. His legs are numb from sitting on the hard wooden floor and he'd dearly jump up at any chance he gets to stretch his legs a bit. But that would be neglecting his duty towards his friend, and as a soldier and doctor, duty always comes before anything else. Even if he's in... in _something _with the bastard and would like nothing better than to chastise him and then snog him within an inch of his life.

Sherlock's eyes shift towards him by a fraction, and he takes it as a sign to continue.

'What were you doing out in that storm?'

Sherlock's alertness is back. He considers replying, but then thinks the better of it and shifts his attention back to the fire.

John has seen that alert, guarded expression return.

'Sherlock.'

'John.' Finally, a word from the Great Sherlock Holmes.

'Tell me. Please.'

'I can't.'

'Sherlock. I'm your friend.' _And also most probably in love with you._

'John.'

'Please.' He tries to keep his voice even, he really _tries_. But it cracks slightly, letting Sherlock know that he's on the edge and isn't fooling about.

'I needed to think.'

'You could've done that at home. Gone to your Mind Palace like you usually do. I could've gone to Sarah's for the evening, let you have all the solitude you wanted.'

Sacrifices. Ever the soldier. _Oh, John._ A large amount of Affection flares up in him unwarranted, which he tries to smother altogether unsuccessfully.

'You in that storm? No.' Sherlock looks incredulous. Well, at least John didn't ask about _what_ he was thinking about out in the rain. Although, judging by his expression, that particular question is going to be asked in three, two, one...

Oh dear.

'So what, exactly, were you 'thinking' about so deeply that you 'forgot' to notice that it was pouring?'

'Erm.'

'Yes?'

'The - the case.' John's so close now that it's slightly (no, _very_) disconcerting.

'What case? You haven't had a case for the past month, that's why the wall's been suffering ever since.'

'Mycroft assigned it to me, it's a highly classified government case and I've had to work in total secrecy.'

'Right, and since when have you been willingly accepting cases which Mycroft assigns?'

No answer.

'Okay then. As your doctor, I'm telling you to stay in bed for the next three days, like a _proper _patient of hypothermia should, and not dash about the flat.'

'But -'

_'Only a fool argues with his doctor_,' John says, mimicking Sherlock but not quite getting the hang of it, 'or did you forget? No buts.'

Sherlock agrees – anything to avoid having to answer John's questions.

'Stupid sodding Sherlock,' John grumbles to himself after tucking Sherlock into bed. He'd actually been hoping to find out what goes on in his best friend's brain. Alas, that day would most probably never arise.

...

Sherlock lies in bed long after John has left, thinking. Why is it that John has such a profound effect on him? Why _only_ John? What does that mean about his hitherto-nonexistent heart? Does he _want_ to feel what John makes him feel?

_Feelings_, he thinks, and snorts loudly in disgust.

John must've heard it, and a tired voice calls from the hallway, 'Sherlock? Are you alright?'

He doesn't need to answer. John will make of that what he will.

_John. _

No-one has ever stayed around long enough to get to know Sherlock the way John Watson has. And along the way, Sherlock has got to know John. It's been a two-way street; although what he's found out about John's character has left him confused more often than not. There are so many shades to the doctor - not just black and white, but grey too.

John's made him _feel_. Something he thought wouldn't be possible. They need each other to survive. And that _terrifies_ him.

'Fuck you, John Watson,' he grumbles half-heartedly.

No, he decides. He's better off the way things are. Relationships just complicate matters. Besides, what if he is unable to provide whatever John needs in a relationship?

He needs to know. John needs to know. With that comforting thought, Sherlock drifts off into a fitful sleep.

...

He dreams that they're back by the swimming pool. The bomb is back on John's chest, and that dreadful feeling of _fear_ is back in Sherlock. John's calling to him for help. Desperate, oh so desperate, and it cuts through him. He wants to help.

And Moriarty steps out of the shadows, a cruel grin playing on his lips.

'This is the most fun I've had in _years!_' he jeers.

And the bomb just explodes with no rhyme or reason.

Simple, yet extremely effective. This is the fifth time he's had that nightmare in the past five days. He wakes up in a cold sweat, his heart thudding wildly.

Until he realises that he isn't alone in his bed, that there is a warm, tea-scented body sleeping next to him. John's hand is curled tightly around his and it anchors him to reality. His body is curved around Sherlock's, forming a sort of protective cocoon.

He stares at John's face in the darkness, trying to make sense of what he's seeing. A soft mouth, set hard during the day, extremely vulnerable at night. The lines on his face have eased, making him look younger and more handsome, if that's possible. Those warm brown eyes that have seen so much destruction and death are covered by the veil of sleep.

He sees his best friend, who has fought with him and for him, and will continue to do so as long as is needed.

'"Fear corrodes my dreams tonight and mist has greyed my hills,

Mountains seem too tall to climb, December winds are chill.

There is no comfort on the earth,

I am a child abandoned,

Until I feel your hand in mine

And laugh down lonely canyons",' he quotes softly, holding John's hand tighter, making the sleeping man stir slightly.

'Mm, and who wrote that poem?' John asks quietly, and Sherlock stiffens.

He relaxes after a moment and says, 'James Kavanaugh.' He chuckles a bit. 'You should listen to the rest of the poem. It's beautiful.'

'I'm sure it is.'

And they fall silent and then asleep, hands still clasped tightly.

...

The first thing John's brain registers after waking up is a loud, resounding _boom_, and his first thought is: _explosion_. His second thought is: _Sherlock. Is he okay?_

He swings his legs off the side of the bed, which he registers is not his own. It's Sherlock's. Pushing that thought aside for now, he hurries down to the kitchen, where he finds Sherlock standing in a pile of black scrapings and coughing in the smoke. It takes him all of his willpower not to laugh at the sight. He bites his lip and goes over to his flatmate, who looks on the verge of a breakdown.

'Sherlock, what happened here?'

A sheepish look crosses Sherlock's face.

'I, erm, tried to cook.'

'Cook what, Sherlock? I thought you'd survived before me.'

'Omelettes, but I couldn't get the hang of it.'

'Oh, I get it. Welcome to the human world, Sherlock Holmes.' He can't stop saying his name. 'There _is _something you can't do!' He laughs wildly.

'What is wrong with you?' Sherlock looks bemused.

'Nothing, just... oh, God, I love you.' He stiffens suddenly, the silly grin slipping off his face with surprising speed. He gulps and looks away. His cheeks diffuse with colour. 'Um. Pretend you didn't hear that.'

Sherlock is stunned. Into silence. And this silence seems to have paralysed him. John... _loves_ him?

John is equally surprised. What had made him say that? He hasn't even admitted to himself that he _loves_ Sherlock. _Oh Lord, please let this nightmare be over. _

'I'll just... go shower. Yeah,' he backtracks. He's just turned when he feels the pressure of a hand on his back and whips around in shock.

Sherlock is impossibly close, his lips barely inches away from his own.

'Sherl -' he begins, but never gets to finish as Sherlock presses their lips together, thus effectively shutting him up.

John's heart lifts and rejoices at finally being able to do this, and he tangles his hands into Sherlock's hair, pulling him closer harshly. Sherlock deepens the kiss, poking the entrance to John's mouth with his tongue and John grants him access. Sherlock feels his way around John's mouth with his tongue, cataloguing each sensation in his mind for future reference.

Suddenly, they break apart as the urge to sneeze wracks Sherlock. He sneezes twice, scrunching his nose up cutely, then looks at John, who sighs.

The moment is over.

It's extremely awkward and the air feels very brittle, as if it were made of glass.

'That was fantastic,' John offers nervously.

'I love you, too.' Sherlock smiles slightly, and moves back towards John. John's grin only widens. But before they can kiss again -

_*sneeze*_

'John?' Sherlock says in a small voice. He sniffs.

'Yes, Sherlock?' John says patiently, like one would with a child.

'I think I have the 'flu.'

'Serves you right for staying out in the rain.'

x—x

**FIN.**


End file.
